|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
| |  |  This story was designed to be read as an Album |
Raise Me Up #1: Fallen
Created By:
Avalonia55
Country: United States of America
Language: US English
|
Created: 03.28.2006
Last Updated: 03.28.2006
Number of Entries: 64
Description:No one has fallen so far that they can't rise again.
Family Name: Kettern
Lot Name: 1 Outercrest Street
Categories: Ponderings and Observations,Sims Life Stories,Tragedy
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Welcome to the first chapter of Raise Me Up, the story of Nash Kettern, a man who has hit rock bottom. I would love to hear any thoughts that you have on it. Thank you to Amenti for the wonderful cover, and everyone at the Sims2 Writer's Hangout for their invaluable advice. This story is not graphic, but does deal with some touchy issues. Read at your own risk. :)
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
First impressions are made in the first few seconds of glancing at a person. Imagine that-the clothes you chose to wear this morning and the way you did your hair is your billboard, telling everyone you meet what type of person you are. Why do we judge people by how they dress? Is it because it's just so much faster and easier than taking the time to get to know them? Or maybe it's because we, at least in most cultures, dress to give a certain impression? Is that it? Is it true that clothes make the man? Or maybe it's the haircut, or how well they accessorize.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Take this man, for example. Do you see him standing here, stripped, a blank canvas? Now let's cover him with what we as a society have deemed necessary to be civilized, and see what that tells us about what kind of man he is.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Look at this, an expensive designer label suit. We can't forget the sixty dollar haircut and the Ray Ban sunglasses. But still, this just doesn't seem quite right. He needs the proper setting to go with his new outfit.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Look at him now! Doesn't he look the respectable sort, the type you'd be glad to have for your neighbor or maybe play a few rounds of golf with? You see, he's Somebody; you can tell that just by the shine on his shoes. He has a place in this world. If he died tomorrow, there would be a lengthy obituary in the paper and weeping masses at his funeral. Flowers would be left at his grave. People would remember.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Now let's take this same man and change him around a bit. Take away the fancy haircut, the expensive ensemble, the shiny shoes. Now we'll dress him in a very different style. The pants he's wearing cost $4.50 at the Goodwill. That probably sounds like a joke, but to him $4.50 means the difference between eating and not eating. The shirt and vest were in good condition once, but after a few years of being worn often and washed seldom, they look bad and smell worse.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
He doesn't accessorize with an IPod or fancy sunglasses. Instead, he carries his threadbare pack with him everywhere. It contains all of his worldly possessions. He doesn't live in a condo, a house, or even a cheap apartment in the bad part of town. He sleeps on park benches, in alleys, in doorways to stay out of the rain. Now what do you think of him? Is he the type you cross the street to avoid? Would you pretend not to see his outstretched hand as you went by him?
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Then again, why should anybody care? It was his own bad choices that led him here, to this grimy sidewalk, his dignity sold for whatever small change he can hustle from passersby. It's so easy to judge, to glide on by with our noses in the air. After all, that could never be you...right?
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
In case you haven't figured it out yet, the man standing in this filthy alleyway is me. This is my story.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I guess you're expecting one of those tired stories where I was a neglected kid with a drug addicted mother and an absentee father, growing up without resources, expectations, boundaries, or even love. Well...you're right. My story is common, but still mine, all the same.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
My mom did the best she could, in her own way, but there was always something standing between me and her, like her daily trips to the bar. Eventually, the days she spent drunk seemed like a sweet dream compared to the nightmare ahead. She had discovered heroin. Once you go down that road, it's almost impossible to find your way back again. Heroin has a way of emptying a person from the inside out, until the only desire left is to get another fix.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
What little self-control she had was gone. There were nights where she didn't come home at all, and days she didn't come home alone. She never seemed to care what type of man was with her, as long as there was one. I couldn't do anything for her; certainly couldn't fill the empty hole in her life, and that left me at the bottom of her list of priorities.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I guess I wasn't the only person who noticed that. When I was nine, I was taken away from my mother and put in a foster home. I was told at first that it was just temporary; that they would help my mom with her problems and then I could go home. It never happened. I saw her a couple of times at my social worker's office, then one day the worker told me that I wouldn't see her anymore but maybe some nice people would want to adopt me. That never happened either.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I lost count of the number of foster homes I was in. After a while, the faces all started to look the same, and I didn't bother to memorize the names, knowing soon they'd all change anyway. By the time I was fifteen I'd run away three times, gotten into plenty of fights, and been expelled from school. I'd also discovered music. I'd managed to keep an afterschool job long enough to buy my first guitar. It was my lifeline. When I played, all the bad stuff melted away.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Music wasn't the only constant in my life though. The other was alcohol. I'd had my first taste at thirteen; a tequilia shooter in a friend's basement. I gagged down the acrid tasting drink thinking that it was the foulest concoction on Earth. After I'd had a few more though, my problems started washing away like debris on a beach at high tide. From that day, I was hooked.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
From time to time I'd experiment with drugs too, but whenever I was tempted to try the harder stuff my mother's face would come into my head. The dead look in her eyes the day I was taken from her-I never wanted to be like that. So I stuck with vodka-or whiskey-or whatever else was handy, and told myself it wasn't as bad. After awhile, I even believed it.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
As I grew older and more problematic, it became harder and harder to find families willing to take me in. It was probably a relief for all involved when I stole the truck belonging to my latest foster family and headed south. No one ever came looking for me, anyway. From then on, I was on my own.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I traveled from city to city, working odd jobs, occasionally hooking up with someone I met at a party or just around. Like my mother before me, I wasn't picky, as long as I'd get a place to sleep for a while, but it never worked out.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I'm the first to admit I know less than nothing about maintaining a relationship. I couldn't even get the most casual of friendships off the ground, much less keep a woman happy. I'd get wasted and forget to show up for a couple of days, or I'd just say the wrong thing, call her the wrong name in bed even, and it was back on the road for me.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
No matter how far I travelled, I always ended up back in Portland, my hometown. Los Angeles may have been warmer, Chicago more cultured, and New York the center of everything but Portland always called me home like a beautiful woman crooking her finger at a lonely man. It smelled like coffee, roses, and rain swirled together, full of street musicians, aging hippies, and idealistic college students handing out flyers on every corner. For better or worse, it was the only place I could call home.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
For a while I earned money playing my guitar for tips, but after a while, the meager amount I made wasn't enough to pay for all the booze I was going through. I tried working again but most mornings I couldn't shake off my hangover early enough to show up on time.. After being fired repeatedly I lost what little pride I had left and starting panhandling. By the time I was nearing thirty the streets were my life. I couldn't remember what it was like to wake up in a bed, or have anyone to wonder where I was.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
And that's where my story really begins, on a day that should have been just like any other. It was one of those rare March days where the sun has finally broken through after months of grey. People from warmer climates don't understand the effect those early spring days have on us northerners. After months of drizzling, dreary clouds you almost forget that ball of warmth of light exists.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
The suddenly it's casting its glow across the city, shining right in your eyes, and well..people get a little delirious. I was at St. John's Park, watching the people with a kind of dumbstruck awe. It may have been 65 degrees with a goosebump inducing wind, but damn it, it was sunny for once and the locals would not be stopped. They paraded by in their short sleeves, bikini tops, and backless dresses as if this were the last sunny day on Earth and they were honor bound to celebrate it.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Well, there was no point in not taking advantage of a good thing. Portlanders in a good mood meant plenty of change in my jar. I wished I still had my guitar. A few months back I'd been cornered by a speed freak with a switchblade in a back alley downtown. He gave me a choice: the guitar or my life. Needless to say, I chose my life, but I won't pretend it didn't take me a couple of minutes to decide. But at least I could sing; how well is up to debate. But it was something, anyway.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
The coins began to clink into my jar almost immediately. It looked like it would be a good day. As I started a second song, a small shadow fell over me. I looked up to see a small girl staring at me intensely. She couldn't have been more than ten, with scraggly dirty blonde hair, enormous brown eyes, and she was watching me as if I were Saturday morning cartoons and the circus all rolled into one. By the looks of her worn t-shirt and too small jeans she wasn't much better off than I was.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
She had the peaked look of a kid who lived on ketchup and mayonnaise sandwiches and generally took care of herself. I recognized the look well-it brought back memories I wished it didn't. Well, it wasn't my problem. I had enough of my own. I looked away, trying to catch the eye of a couple strolling past, who looked like they might be good for a couple of simeoleans. When I looked back, she was gone.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
For a second I felt a small twinge of regret. I couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at me like that, like I was interesting, instead of pitiful. Almost an hour later, while I was finishing up a tearjerking version of 'Belfast Mill' I saw a small pair of feet in front of me. Looking up, I saw the child had returned. She held something behind her back, and was nervously shuffling her feet back and forth. I couldn't imagine what she wanted.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Shyly, she took her hands behind her back. She was clutching a piece of paper. "I don't have any money to give you,' she said softly, 'so I made you this.' I was too surprised to say anything as I stood and reached for it. It was a drawing-a man in brown, who I guessed was supposed to be me, and a little girl. She'd also drawn a smiley face sun and a red heart. Across the top was scrawled, 'Your singing is prety. you are nice. Love, Sarah'.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I don't know how long I stood there, just staring at it, but when I looked up again she was gone. I guess I should have said something. Maybe she thought I didn't like it. I looked around for her but she was nowhere to be seen. I tried to shrug it off, but it was like a cloud had fallen across the sun. The first nice thing someone had done for me in years, and I couldn't even say thank you.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
The rest of the day passed much more slowly then those first few sun drenched hours . When it neared sundown I tallied up my take. It was almost $40, which was a small fortune and the most I'd made in many a day. The park was emptying out of families, and starting to fill up with more questionable types, looking for a place to crash or to score. I decided against sleeping there tonight. People like me are easy targets, and are killed for far less than what I had on me at the moment.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Besides, it was time for me enjoy the fruits of my labors. Ok, so labor may not be the right word but you get the picture. I headed to the closest mini-mart. As I entered, the clerk looked up and immediately frowned as he looked at my grime-covered clothing. "Hey buddy." he called to me, "I don't have anything for you. Hit the road." "It's not like that. I've got money." I showed him the bills in my hand. "Fine then. What'll it be?" he sighed.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I pointed at the locked liquor display cabinet behind him. "Right there." I said, indicating the bottle I wanted. The clerk rang up the large bottle for me. It took most of my money, but I planned to make it last for a while. He put the bottle in a paper bag, then to my surprise picked up a plastic wrapped sandwich from the deli case next to the register and dropped it in as well. He gave me a grudging smile as he handed me the bag. "You should at least eat something before you start drinking."
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"Thanks." I mumbled, embarrassed. I knew the man was just trying to be nice, but the pitying way he looked at me bothered me. It wasn't like the little girl earlier. She didn't look at me like a stupid animal that was too dumb to take care of itself. Normally, I expect people to look down on me, but I tried not to think about it. Having it right in my face made that hard to do. I hurried out the door, trying to put as much space between myself and the awkward moment as possible.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I walked down the street, eating my sandwich on the way. I had to admit it tasted good-I hadn't realized how hungry I was. I was heading to one of my favorite sleeping spots, behind the Goodwill on Burnside. Not too many think to sleep there, but there was usually an old couch or two that even they couldn't sell, waiting by the dumpsters. Plus, if I overslept and wasn't gone before the morning shift was gone they generally would look the other way.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Tonight there were three different sofas to choose from. I picked the one that smelled the least and sat down. The bottle sat by my foot, unopened. Instead of reaching for it, I pulled the little girl's drawing out of my pocket and read the words again: "Your singing is prety. you are nice." I shook my head. Dumb kid. I crumpled up the paper into a ball and threw it on the ground. I didn't like the way it affected me.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
For so long, I'd moved through life like a ghost; unnoticed by most. I blended into the scenery, just another stain on the sidewalk. I thought that was the way I wanted it. Why should I want people bothering me? They meant nothing more to me then the amount of change they tossed in my direction. But this kid-she looked at me like I was something special, someone to look up to. She couldn't be any more wrong, but still...it meant something to me. It meant a lot.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
And here I was, getting all deep and introspective, two things that I usually tried to avoid. I uncapped the bottle. Damned if I would let all this profound thinking spoil the taste. But before I took a swig, I set it back down and picked up the drawing, smoothing out the wrinkles carefully and putting it back in my pocket. Ok, so I'm the world's biggest sap but no one would ever have to know that.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I felt myself starting to get melancholy again. I took a big drink and laid my exhausted head on the couch. Just a few more sips, and I'd be able to sleep. There would be no nightmares about my mother, no fear of waking up to a knife at my throat or a nightstick wielding cop. No, my best friend Jack would see to it that none of those things bothered me tonight...
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"So there was no identification on him at all?" A soft voice murmured. "No, but that's to be expected with his type." The sound of muffled voices and a bright light behind my eyelids brought me back to painful reality. My head was throbbing as I laid still, wondering if I was dreaming after all. Thanks for nothing, Jack.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
There was a foul taste in my mouth, and my stomach was rebelling, another two signs that I'd overdone it the night before. I felt like a two ton weight had settled on top of me, but finally I forced my eyelids open and sat up. As soon as I did, I wished I was still unconscious. I wasn't in my familiar alley anymore. I was in what looked like a hospital bed.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Frickin' hell, how had I ended up here? I couldn't remember a damn thing. I struggled to swing my legs over the side of the bed. Maybe I could sneak out of here before anyone noticed and avoid whatever trouble I was in. For all I knew, there was a cop hanging out, waiting to arrest me for vagrancy as soon as they were sure I wasn't going to die in their squad car and cause all sorts of bad publicity.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
As soon as I managed to sit all the way up I realized I wasn't going anywhere. For one thing, I was dressed in hospital issue pajamas, and my clothes were no where in sight. Secondly, I wasn't alone. Two women stood at the far end of the room, talking. One was obviously a nurse. The other I couldn't figure out. She was wearing a hospital ID badge, but she was dressed much too casually to be a doctor.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
They both turned their heads as the bed creaked and gave me away. "Oh, you're awake." the one I had been trying to figure out said. She looked at the nurse. "I can take it from here. About five days, the doctor said?" The nurse nodded. "At least. Between the alcohol poisoning and the asphyxiation he's lucky to be alive."
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Lucky to be alive? Who were they kidding? If there was a God, I would have passed peacefully in my sleep instead of being trapped in this medical version of jail, no doubt being used as a human pincushion for the next five days.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
The nurse turned and left the room without another word. The other woman came toward the bed, smiling at me. "Hello. I'm Malaya Fairbanks. I'm a social worker. Do you know where you are?" She didn't look like any social worker I'd ever seen before. The ones from my childhood generally were older, wore cheap suits, disgruntled expressions, and rarely spoke directly to me, preferring to speak over my head to whatever adult had charge of me that week.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Malaya Fairbanks looked young-maybe early 30's at the most. Instead of a suit, she wore jeans and a sweater. Her green eyes looked directly into mine. Her face wore a warm expression as she gazed at me. A small *ahem* reminded me that she was still waiting for my answer.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"It doesn't take a genius to figure out I'm in a hospital. And why do I need a social worker? Don't you have enough foster kids to keep you busy?" Malaya's smile didn't waver at my words. "Ah. You must be a product of the foster care system yourself." She wrote something on the clipboard she was holding. "How do you know? I snapped. My head was pounding so hard it felt like my eyes would pop out of their sockets. All I wanted was for this nosy chick to leave me alone so I could try to sleep, or at least puke in private.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"I recognize the treadmarks. Anyway, I dont' work for the Department of Children's Services. I work here, at Providence Hospital. My job is to assess patients that may be in need of services." "I don't need your services." I snapped. "Go away." Instead she pulled a chair up to my bedside and sat down, evidently planning to stay awhile. "You don't need my services?" Is that why you're living on the streets?'
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"You almost drowned in your own vomit last night." she continued. "Is that how you want to die?" No, it wasn't how I wanted to go. But I wasn't about to tell her that. Besides, I had a feeling if I opened my mouth I'd spew chunks. It had been a long time since I'd gotten sick like this. I must have drank the whole bottle without realizing it.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Malaya seemed to recognize the signs of inevitable ralphing. She picked up a bedpan from the sidetable and handed it to me. "Go ahead-I'll wait." She sat back and folded her hands, completely composed. I didn't want her to watch me throw up but I couldn't hold back anymore. There was nothing in my stomach but still I heaved repeatedly, eyes watering and drooling like a madman.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Meanwhile, Malaya got up and walked into the bathroom, coming back with a cup of water. "Here you go." I rinsed out my mouth. The water was cool and delicious but I didn't dare swallow, afraid my stomach would rebel on me again. "Better now?" Malaya asked.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I nodded, wiping my mouth with my hand. "Good. Now where were we?" Malaya glanced at the stack of papers on her lap. "Oh yes. Let's start with your name." "Nash." She looked at me expectantly. I sighed. "Kettern. Spelled K-e-t-t-e-r-n."
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"Nash Kettern." she wrote for a moment. "I don't suppose you're signed up for the Oregon Healthcare Plan." I looked at her blankly. "I didn't think so. I'll just take some information now so I can at least get the paperwork started. You're entitled to basic healthcare, and you need it, especially if you drink yourself into a stupor on a regular basis."
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"Why are you doing this?" I blurted out. Malaya looked at me in surprise. "It's my job, Nash." "So? I've been in the hospital before. No one else asked me all these questions, or tried to sign me up for healthcare. I haven't had a social worker since I was a kid, but I remember how they just wanted to get me out of the way as soon as possible. You don't have to play nice. I don't need any of this."
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
Malaya gave me an icy look. "Look, Nash, I can tell you've had a hard time. I'm sorry your workers let you down as a kid. I'm not going to lie to you-this kind of work is brutally hard, and doesn't pay very well. Sometimes we don't get the quality of people that we want in the right positions. But I care about what I do, and if you insult me again, I'll knock your head off." She gave me a stern look, then smiled to show she was only kidding.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I nodded. I wasn't sure what she really wanted from me, but it was obvious she wasn't leaving until she got it. It was better to just cooperate, for now, anyway. Malaya continued down the list of questions. "No point in asking your address." she mumbled more to herself than me. "How old are you?" "Uh.." I hesitated.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"It's not supposed to be a stumper, Nash." "It's just..I'm not exactly sure. I kinda lost track of things. Twenty-eight, I think." Malaya sighed and put down her pen. "Now do you see why I'm here, Nash? You've been on the streets, drinking that poison for so long you've lost touch with everything, even yourself." She looked like she wanted to say more, but apparently thought better of it.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"I think that's enough for today. You need rest more than anything else. I'll be back tomorrow, and we can finish the paperwork and talk more then." She patted my hand and stood up to leave. "Ms. Fairbanks?" I asked. She turned around. "Call me Malaya, please." "Malaya, then. Do you know where my clothes are?"
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"In the incinerator, hopefully." Malaya chuckled. Seeing the look on my face, she stopped. "I'm kidding, Nash. All of your belongings are in the storage room, including the cash we found on you. You'll get it all back when you're released." "Oh..I was just hoping.." my voice trailed off. I was relieved no one had taken my money, but no clothes meant I couldn't sneak out the back door.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"There was something I wanted to give you though. I thought it might be important." Malaya rifled through her papers, withdrawing a wrinkled piece of paper. I recognized it even from across the room. It was Sarah's drawing.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
I reached for it with trembling hands, and sat looking at it, just as I had the night before. I was a bit embarrassed by my own emotional reaction to having it back, but I couldn't help myself. Malaya gave me a long assessing look. "I can't wait to hear the story behind this, but I guess it will have to wait." Once again, Malaya turned away, then stopped short.
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
"Nash, I know you don't want to be here. Maybe you'll decide to walk out the door tomorrow, and you're free to do that if you want. But I have a feeling about you. I don't know why, but I've learned to trust my instincts. I'll do all I can to help you, but you've got to decide that you want to live, really live, not just survive from day to day." She stopped, once again giving me the impression she had wanted to say more. "Think about it, Nash. I'll see you in the morning."
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
With that she was gone, but her words swirled around in my head, along with Sarah's face, and the words she had written on her drawing. Was it possible that things could be different for me? I couldn't shut off the little voice inside me, the one that was screaming that it did want to live. But where was I going to start?
|
| |
Created: 03.28.2006 - Updated: 03.28.2006
In chapter two: What does Malaya have in mind for Nash? Will he have the strength to try and over come his addiction? And how will Sarah make a return appearance? Let me know what you think by signing my guestbook or sending me an email at avalonia55@yahoo.com. Thanks for taking the time to read-it means a lot to me.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
Welcome to the first chapter of Raise Me Up, the story of Nash Kettern, a man who has hit rock bottom. I would love to hear any thoughts that you have on it. Thank you to Amenti for the wonderful cover, and everyone at the Sims2 Writer's Hangout for their invaluable advice. This story is not graphic, but does deal with some touchy issues. Read at your own risk. :)
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
First impressions are made in the first few seconds of glancing at a person. Imagine that-the clothes you chose to wear this morning and the way you did your hair is your billboard, telling everyone you meet what type of person you are. Why do we judge people by how they dress? Is it because it's just so much faster and easier than taking the time to get to know them? Or maybe it's because we, at least in most cultures, dress to give a certain impression? Is that it? Is it true that clothes make the man? Or maybe it's the haircut, or how well they accessorize.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
Take this man, for example. Do you see him standing here, stripped, a blank canvas? Now let's cover him with what we as a society have deemed necessary to be civilized, and see what that tells us about what kind of man he is.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
Look at this, an expensive designer label suit. We can't forget the sixty dollar haircut and the Ray Ban sunglasses. But still, this just doesn't seem quite right. He needs the proper setting to go with his new outfit.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
Look at him now! Doesn't he look the respectable sort, the type you'd be glad to have for your neighbor or maybe play a few rounds of golf with? You see, he's Somebody; you can tell that just by the shine on his shoes. He has a place in this world. If he died tomorrow, there would be a lengthy obituary in the paper and weeping masses at his funeral. Flowers would be left at his grave. People would remember.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
Now let's take this same man and change him around a bit. Take away the fancy haircut, the expensive ensemble, the shiny shoes. Now we'll dress him in a very different style. The pants he's wearing cost $4.50 at the Goodwill. That probably sounds like a joke, but to him $4.50 means the difference between eating and not eating. The shirt and vest were in good condition once, but after a few years of being worn often and washed seldom, they look bad and smell worse.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
He doesn't accessorize with an IPod or fancy sunglasses. Instead, he carries his threadbare pack with him everywhere. It contains all of his worldly possessions. He doesn't live in a condo, a house, or even a cheap apartment in the bad part of town. He sleeps on park benches, in alleys, in doorways to stay out of the rain. Now what do you think of him? Is he the type you cross the street to avoid? Would you pretend not to see his outstretched hand as you went by him?
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
Then again, why should anybody care? It was his own bad choices that led him here, to this grimy sidewalk, his dignity sold for whatever small change he can hustle from passersby. It's so easy to judge, to glide on by with our noses in the air. After all, that could never be you...right?
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
In case you haven't figured it out yet, the man standing in this filthy alleyway is me. This is my story.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
I guess you're expecting one of those tired stories where I was a neglected kid with a drug addicted mother and an absentee father, growing up without resources, expectations, boundaries, or even love. Well...you're right. My story is common, but still mine, all the same.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
My mom did the best she could, in her own way, but there was always something standing between me and her, like her daily trips to the bar. Eventually, the days she spent drunk seemed like a sweet dream compared to the nightmare ahead. She had discovered heroin. Once you go down that road, it's almost impossible to find your way back again. Heroin has a way of emptying a person from the inside out, until the only desire left is to get another fix.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
What little self-control she had was gone. There were nights where she didn't come home at all, and days she didn't come home alone. She never seemed to care what type of man was with her, as long as there was one. I couldn't do anything for her; certainly couldn't fill the empty hole in her life, and that left me at the bottom of her list of priorities.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
I guess I wasn't the only person who noticed that. When I was nine, I was taken away from my mother and put in a foster home. I was told at first that it was just temporary; that they would help my mom with her problems and then I could go home. It never happened. I saw her a couple of times at my social worker's office, then one day the worker told me that I wouldn't see her anymore but maybe some nice people would want to adopt me. That never happened either.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
I lost count of the number of foster homes I was in. After a while, the faces all started to look the same, and I didn't bother to memorize the names, knowing soon they'd all change anyway. By the time I was fifteen I'd run away three times, gotten into plenty of fights, and been expelled from school. I'd also discovered music. I'd managed to keep an afterschool job long enough to buy my first guitar. It was my lifeline. When I played, all the bad stuff melted away.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
Music wasn't the only constant in my life though. The other was alcohol. I'd had my first taste at thirteen; a tequilia shooter in a friend's basement. I gagged down the acrid tasting drink thinking that it was the foulest concoction on Earth. After I'd had a few more though, my problems started washing away like debris on a beach at high tide. From that day, I was hooked.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
From time to time I'd experiment with drugs too, but whenever I was tempted to try the harder stuff my mother's face would come into my head. The dead look in her eyes the day I was taken from her-I never wanted to be like that. So I stuck with vodka-or whiskey-or whatever else was handy, and told myself it wasn't as bad. After awhile, I even believed it.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
As I grew older and more problematic, it became harder and harder to find families willing to take me in. It was probably a relief for all involved when I stole the truck belonging to my latest foster family and headed south. No one ever came looking for me, anyway. From then on, I was on my own.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
I traveled from city to city, working odd jobs, occasionally hooking up with someone I met at a party or just around. Like my mother before me, I wasn't picky, as long as I'd get a place to sleep for a while, but it never worked out.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
I'm the first to admit I know less than nothing about maintaining a relationship. I couldn't even get the most casual of friendships off the ground, much less keep a woman happy. I'd get wasted and forget to show up for a couple of days, or I'd just say the wrong thing, call her the wrong name in bed even, and it was back on the road for me.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
No matter how far I travelled, I always ended up back in Portland, my hometown. Los Angeles may have been warmer, Chicago more cultured, and New York the center of everything but Portland always called me home like a beautiful woman crooking her finger at a lonely man. It smelled like coffee, roses, and rain swirled together, full of street musicians, aging hippies, and idealistic college students handing out flyers on every corner. For better or worse, it was the only place I could call home.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
For a while I earned money playing my guitar for tips, but after a while, the meager amount I made wasn't enough to pay for all the booze I was going through. I tried working again but most mornings I couldn't shake off my hangover early enough to show up on time.. After being fired repeatedly I lost what little pride I had left and starting panhandling. By the time I was nearing thirty the streets were my life. I couldn't remember what it was like to wake up in a bed, or have anyone to wonder where I was.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
And that's where my story really begins, on a day that should have been just like any other. It was one of those rare March days where the sun has finally broken through after months of grey. People from warmer climates don't understand the effect those early spring days have on us northerners. After months of drizzling, dreary clouds you almost forget that ball of warmth of light exists.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
The suddenly it's casting its glow across the city, shining right in your eyes, and well..people get a little delirious. I was at St. John's Park, watching the people with a kind of dumbstruck awe. It may have been 65 degrees with a goosebump inducing wind, but damn it, it was sunny for once and the locals would not be stopped. They paraded by in their short sleeves, bikini tops, and backless dresses as if this were the last sunny day on Earth and they were honor bound to celebrate it.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
Well, there was no point in not taking advantage of a good thing. Portlanders in a good mood meant plenty of change in my jar. I wished I still had my guitar. A few months back I'd been cornered by a speed freak with a switchblade in a back alley downtown. He gave me a choice: the guitar or my life. Needless to say, I chose my life, but I won't pretend it didn't take me a couple of minutes to decide. But at least I could sing; how well is up to debate. But it was something, anyway.
|
 |
Created: 03.28.2006 Updated: 03.28.2006
The coins began to clink into my jar almost immediately. It looked like it would be a good day. As I started a second song, a small shadow fell over me. I looked up to see a small girl staring at me intensely. She couldn't have been more than ten, with scraggly dirty blonde hair, enormous brown eyes, and she was watching me as if I were Saturday morning cartoons and the circus all rolled into one. By the looks of her worn t-shirt and too small jeans she wasn't much better off than I was.
|
Show all Images
|
|
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
 |
|